The Magnificent Seven gang doesn't belong to me. That honor belongs to MGM and some others. I'm just taking them out for a little exercise. They will be returned.

Between The Devil And Me

By

Catherine Foster

Between the Devil and me

--Alan Jackson

Part 1

"You're a stinkin' coward, Larabee."

Chris' jaw tightened as he heard the damning accusation, a hot anger coaxed to the surface by the disgusting word--coward. He felt his hand twitch at his side, but he wouldn't pull the gun, not if he could help it. "And you're drunk, Hawkins. Go sleep it off. I don't wanna fight you."

He studied the aging face of the man standing in front of him and flinched at the raw hatred reflected there. It had been over two years, but it appeared as though Jake Hawkins hadn't forgotten, and was nowhere near forgiveness. And why should he forgive? Fair or not, the man's boy had died by Chris' hand. A son's death was something a father never got over. He knew all too well. A familiar pain cut through the gunman's heart. God, how he knew.

"Go back home, Hawkins. I'm not gonna give you the chance to get yourself killed. Go back to your family. Leave it be." With that, Chris walked out of the saloon. Turning his back on the distraught old man probably wasn't one of the smartest things he'd ever done. Jake was carrying a Colt at his side, after all. But walking away was the safest thing Larabee could do. He had no wish to kill Hawkins. Besides, the grieving father was more than likely too drunk to do anything more than threaten.

As he stepped into the quiet street and pulled on his hat, Chris wondered how Jake had gotten into town without his knowing about it. Part of protecting the people of Four Corners was keeping an eye on the strangers that wandered into town. But this once small town was growing. Too fast, as far as he was concerned. Keeping a close watch over everyone was becoming more and more difficult.

And today... The gentlest of smiles tugged at Chris' mouth. Well, today had been somewhat of an unusual day. He'd been a little preoccupied, as had the rest of the seven men who guarded Four Corners. They'd spent the better part of the late morning and early afternoon moving furniture. Desks to be precise--school desks. Mary Travis was getting the new schoolhouse ready, and she'd asked for their help. The seven lawmen had been more than happy to oblige.

Chris' smile widened as he recalled the joy on Mary's face when the shiny, new desks had arrived from St. Louis. As soon as they had been unloaded, she'd wanted them put in the schoolhouse. It was early September, and the new teacher was due to arrive in another week. Everything had to be as perfect as possible for the first day of school.

The gunman knew it was a day Mary had dreamed about almost from the time of her husband's death. She desperately wanted to have Billy with her, but felt the town wasn't tame enough for her son to live in with any degree of safety. However, things had changed since the day of the seven peacekeepers' arrival. And now, with the building of the school and the acquisition of a teacher, the widow happily welcomed her child back into her life.

The sound of footsteps on the walkway garnered Chris' attention. He looked over his shoulder to see Mary and Billy walking towards him.

"Chris!" Billy broke his mother's grip on his hand and started running down the walk.

The easy grin was automatic when Chris heard the familiar shout of his name. It was a sound he would never tire of hearing. In fact, it was a sound he looked forward to hearing, the delight and excitement in the young voice making him feel about ten feet tall.

Turning just in time, he opened his arms to catch the small body that came hurling at him from the top of the stairs.

"Billy!" Mary scolded as she stopped at the spot where her son had launched himself into Chris' arms. "You be careful. You could hurt yourself and Mister Larabee."

"Ah, Ma." The boy put one arm around Chris' neck as he turned to look at his mother, a dejected frown pulling at his mouth. "Chris is strong." The frown dissolved into a confident smile. "He always catches me. He'll never let me get hurt."

"It's all right, Mary." Chris settled Billy in his arms as his attention fell on the woman standing in front of the saloon.

The sun was well on its way toward setting, and the evening fires had already been lit. The glow from a nearby flame danced over the widow's beautiful, smiling face, and Chris felt something tug at his gut as he gazed at her. It was a reaction he'd grown accustomed to over the last year or so, and had long since stopped cursing himself for. He could no more control it than he could the tender feelings she had fostered in his heart. Somewhere along the way, she'd broken through the barrier he'd erected and made herself right at home. And he'd seemed defenseless against the invasion. Larabee could no longer ignore Mary Travis' effect on him, and he had all but given up trying. Maybe letting himself feel again wasn't such a terrible thing?

Chris let his eyes roam over the golden hair hanging loosely about her face, the light from the fire giving the pale stands an almost ethereal radiance. He was certain the honey-colored locks would be silk under his touch, and he tried to squash the sudden need to find out for sure as his grip on the child in his arms tightened slightly.

"We've been at the new school." Billy's enthusiastic voice broke through Chris' silent yearning. "Ma was cleanin' the new desks."

"Cleanin' the new desks?" The gunman raised an amused eyebrow as he asked the rhetorical question.

That tightness in the pit of his stomach yanked again as a pretty shade of pink appeared on the widow's cheeks. Dropping her eyes to the ground, Mary chuckled softly before looking back into Chris' face. Self-consciously, she ran her hands down the sides of her skirt as she nodded. "I know. I know. But you know how dusty everything gets around here. I just wanted them to look nice."

Yeah, he knew. She was so excited, she was ready to burst. Her excitement was contagious, and Chris felt it rush through him. But the contentment came more from seeing Mary so happy than from the new desks sitting in the schoolhouse on the edge of town.

"So, where is everyone?" Mary's eyes traveled to the saloon as she appeared bent on changing the subject of conversation from her overzealous cleaning habits.

"Well," Chris decided not to push the embarrassing topic any further as he assumed she referred to his six cohorts, "after we finished helping you, they sorta scattered. I think JD's havin' dinner with Casey. Josiah said the church needed some more work, so he and Nathan headed that way. And Buck..." Chris smiled as he shook his head. "Well, you know Buck. I think he said somethin' about seein' a friend--female, of course. Vin an' Ezra were gonna meet me here after they had some supper."

"Supper," Billy repeated the word. "I'm hungry, Ma. When are we havin' supper?"

A guilt-tainted sympathy washed over Mary's features as she smiled sheepishly at her son. "I know, honey. I'm sorry we stayed so long at the school. We'll go right now. How does stew sound?"

"Stew? Great!" The boy's face lit up as he turned to Chris. "Ma makes the best stew in the whole world. Hey," he looked back to his mother. "Can Chris have supper with us, Ma? Please?"

The gunman's attention shifted to Mary, and he watched the surprise register on her face. "Well..." She hesitated a moment as she thought. "I think there should be plenty."

"Mary, you don't--" Chris started to excuse himself.

"Have you had dinner, Mister Larabee?" The widow smiled warmly as she interrupted him, a genuine invitation shining in her lovely eyes.

The longing pulled at Chris once again as he confronted the gentle kindness in Mary's gaze. He would like nothing better than to spend the evening in her and Billy's company, enjoying a good, home-cooked meal. Vin and Ezra wouldn't miss him. "Well, no, ma'am." He shook his head. "I haven't. And I don't think I could pass up 'the best stew in the whole world.'"

Mary's smile widened as the subtle crimson found its way back into her cheeks.

"I said you're a coward, Chris Larabee!" The slurred voice of Jake Hawkins suddenly blared from the saloon, the doors swinging open with a violent crash as the drunken man staggered onto the walkway, Colt in hand.

Chris' body tensed in alert response to the enraged words and the menacing presence staring down on him from the walkway.

Damn! the heated reproach echoed in the gunman's head. He'd forgotten about Hawkins, let his guard down. But worse than that, he'd gotten sloppy, and now he was paying for it. In his effort to defuse a situation, he'd allowed it to get out of control. Chris had let his sympathy for the heartbroken father get in the way of his judgement.

Hell, Larabee silently cursed again. He knew better. He should have taken Hawkins over to the jail to sober up when he had the chance.

Billy. Mary. A sharp urgency bit through Chris as the need to keep them safe consumed him. He tried to ignore the twinge of panic that pricked the back of his mind as he searched for an idea that would get mother and son out of harm's way. They couldn't be made to suffer for his stupidity.

Slowly, he slid Billy to the ground and pushed the boy behind him, his eyes darting to Mary as she stood beside Hawkins. A startled dismay blanketed her expression as she stared at the pistol in Jake's hand.

"I've been lookin' for you... for... for nearly two years... you bastard." Hawkins' unsteady voice grabbed Chris' attention. "You're gonna pay... for what you... for what you did to my son." The old man took another step forward as he raised the gun a little higher.

"Now, Jake, take it easy." Chris raised his hands chest high, palms facing outward in a gesture of surrender. "I told you, I don't want to fight you. Put the gun away. You don't wanna do this."

A bitter laugh erupted from Hawkins as he shook his head. "I don't?" The smile that curved his mouth was an extension of the laugh--harsh, cynical. "You don't know... how much I do want this, Larabee." The smile disappeared. "For... what you... did to my son. For all... the pain... you... put me through. For all the... the... pain you... put my wife through. You deserve to die."

"Jake?"

Chris felt that twinge of panic grow into a throbbing dread when he heard Mary cautiously address Hawkins. He watched in fearful amazement as she cast the old man a tentative smile.

No, Mary. No! Silently, he warned the widow away.

"Jake, please put the gun away. You're... tired. You need to rest. I know you really don't want to hurt anyone. Please." Mary took a step toward Hawkins, a hand extended in friendship.

Chris looked on, breathless, as the nerve-wrenching scene played out before his eyes, helpless to put a stop to it. For an instant, the caustic scowl on Hawkins' face vanished, the sound of Mary's soft, soothing voice seeming to draw some of the heated anger from him. Maybe she could stop this? But as she took another step closer to Jake, his eyes darted to Chris and then back to the widow, and a light of recognition dawned in the hazel depths. The gunslinger's guarded optimism came crashing down around him as he watched the harsh smile return to the older man's mouth.

A cold finger of fear slide along Chris' backbone, and he found it impossible to hold his tongue another minute. "Mary, no," he pleaded as he took one step forward, the words coming as little more than a gruff whisper.

"Ma?" Billy's small, anxious voice drifted from behind the gunman.

"Down, Billy. Lay down on the ground. Now." Chris quietly ordered, and was quickly obeyed.

"Does this belong to you, Larabee?" Hawkins snaked a hand around Mary's wrist and pulled her to him, his arm moving around her waist to hold her more securely. Even as drunk as he appeared to be, he still seemed to have fairly good control over his movements, unfortunately. "Hmm--" His bloodshot eyes swiftly traveled over his captive's profile. "Mighty pretty, ain't she?" He eased the end of the gun barrel across Mary's cheek before looking back at Chris, a cruel mischief lurking in the challenging stare. "How would you feel, Larabee? How would you feel if I took this pretty lady from you?"

The hushed gasp that left Mary jerked Chris' heart into his throat, as did the meaning behind Hawkins' venomous words. But the fear that welled up inside him was puny when compared to the fierce rage that suddenly moved through him. The fury formed a tight line along his mouth as his eyes narrowed, his low, steady voice brimming with malice. "If you so much as look like you're gonna hurt her, Hawkins, I'll kill you where you stand. So help me."

The deadly promise hovered between the two men like a smoldering stick of dynamite as Chris moved the right side of his black duster to rest behind the gun on his hip. He thought the attempt at intimidation had worked for a moment as a dull uncertainty entered Jake's eyes. But just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished.

"So," the older man tightened his hold on Mary as an assured smile crept across his lips, "she does belong to you."

"No." Chris slowly moved his head from side to side, his tone becoming unknowingly wistful. "She doesn't belong to me." His eyes locked with Mary's as he hesitated. Fear still lingered in the beautiful, smoky-blue depths, but there was also a confidence gleaming there, a steadfast belief in him and his ability to get her out of this horrific situation, safely. He would do, say, anything not to disappoint her. Every corner of his mind screamed a silent denial when he continued. "She's no one special. She's just a citizen in this town. A town I'm paid to protect."

"Nice try, Larabee." Hawkins' brow knitted together in a dark frown. "You're not a very good liar. I can see it in your eyes. She means more to you than you're saying--a lot more. I wonder... How much pain would you suffer if I snatched her from your life?"

As Chris digested the nauseating question, he felt something in him snap. He wanted this man dead for what he'd just said. Taking another step forward, his incensed gaze moved back to Hawkins. "Damn you, let her go! Your quarrel is with me! Leave her out of this! I'll do whatever you want, just let her go!"

A movement inside the saloon suddenly captured Chris' attention. Holding his breath, he watched Ezra quietly make his way up to the swinging doors behind Hawkins. And out of the corner of his eye, Larabee saw Vin crouched low at the end of the walkway, his mare's leg trained on the man holding Mary hostage.

"You'll do whatever I want?" The old man's brow rose with the inquiry, a stain of guarded pleasure marking his tone. "Well, at first, I thought I wanted you to die, but--" The pleased note in Hawkins' voice now pulled at the corners of his mouth. "But now," he leveled the gun barrel at Mary's head, "now, I think knowing you suffer the same hell I suffer will be a lot more satisfying."

Chris heard the click of Hawkins' gun as the hammer was pulled back into position, and he felt his reawakened heart grow cold with a desperate misery he hadn't felt in over three years.

"I don't believe that would be a very prudent move, my friend." Ezra's calm, southern drawl was the next thing Chris heard as the gambler materialized behind Hawkins; his gun trained at the old man's head while the barrel rested on Jake's shoulder. "Now, would you be so kind as to drop the weapon so we can have a nice, quiet evening? All this unnecessary activity is playing havoc with my digestion."

When Hawkins didn't immediately comply with Ezra's request, the tension that had been somewhat eased by the southerner's timely appearance once again began to build. As the seconds ticked past, the startled look on Jake's face faded into one of frustrated rage, his poisonous gaze trained squarely on Chris. The old man had been caught, defeated. There would be no revenge, no suffering for his enemy. He would put the gun down and that would be the end of it.

But... Chris watched the intense fury sparkle in Jake's eyes, and somehow, he knew the old man wasn't finished, yet. Hawkins was well past the point of caring about what happened to himself, a state of mind Larabee knew very well. There would be no backing down now. Jake had come too far, gotten too close to his goal. The desire for vengeance was the only thing keeping the grieving father alive at this point, and even if it killed him, he would see it through to its conclusion.

As soon as he comprehended the older man's terrifying intention, Chris moved. In two lightening-quick strides, his hand was around Hawkins' wrist. Just as he pushed the gun barrel up in the air, the sound of the shot thundered in his ears.

With the deafening sound, Chris' gut-wrenching panic was lost in the white-hot anger that overwhelmed him, the desire to kill Hawkins moving over him with all the force of a desert wind storm. He felt as though he could rip the old man apart with his bare hands, but from somewhere inside himself, he found the control necessary to keep the murderous impulse in check.

Ripping the gun from Jake's grasp, he looked into the old man's face, capturing the surprised, hazel eyes with his own. "Let her go." Chris' voice was edged with steel as he bite out the quiet command, the menace thick as molasses as it dripped from the simple words.

A wolf's snarl couldn't have been more unnerving, and genuine fear flashed across Hawkins' features. This time, he didn't hesitate in obeying the demand, his arm quickly dropping from around Mary's waist.

"Get him outta here, Ezra, before I do somethin' I'm gonna regret." Chris indicated the jail with a jerk of his head.

"Come on, you." The sharp, uncharacteristically plain order shot from the gambler as he pushed Jake towards the steps, a disgusted frown hardening the lines of his face.

"Mary?" Chris' sights shifted from the man now being escorted across the street to the woman standing statue-still by his side. The beautiful, rosy blush that had touched her cheeks just a few moments ago was gone. In fact, all of the color had drained from her face, and in its absence, an ashen mask of fear had settled into place. The sight brought Chris' own fear surging back as he repeated her name, more urgently this time. "Mary?"

The sound of his troubled voice seemed to pull the widow from the haze into which she'd fallen. Blinking as if to help clear the fog, Mary looked up into Larabee's face. The fear in her expression shone brightly in her eyes as the telling sheen of tears sparkled there.

Without a word, and without a single thought for what was proper, Chris slid an arm around her waist and pulled her to him. He closed his eyes in a silent prayer when he felt her return the embrace, her arms moving around him tightly as her cheek came to rest on his chest. She was all right. Thank the Lord, she was all right.

"Ma? Chris?" Billy's small, frightened voice registered in the Chris' ears.

As the gunman opened his eyes, he felt Mary lift her head and release her hold on him. But before he could turn around, he heard the anxious trot of small feet as they climbed the few steps to the walkway. In the next instant, Mary had her son in her arms, hugging him closely.

"It's okay, honey," she whispered softly. "I'm okay."

Yeah, this time she's okay. The bitter condemnation rang in Chris' head. But what about the next one, and the next one?

An all-consuming guilt rose up in Chris as he stared at the mother and child whose lives had come so close to being destroyed because of their proximity to him.

Not again. A sick dread joined the unrelenting guilt as a stony determination began to harden his heart. This won't happen again.

"You okay?" Vin's concern interrupted the violent self-reproach of Chris' thoughts as the marksman walked up to the trio standing in front of the saloon. "Mary?"

The widow cast the sharpshooter a half-smile as she loosened her hold on her son and nodded. "Yes, Vin. I'm okay... a little shaky, but okay."

"Chris!"

Turning his head in the direction of the call, Larabee saw Buck Wilmington striding down the center of the street, revolver in hand. Within a few seconds, he was up on the walkway, confused eyes fixed on his long-time friend. "I heard a gunshot. Is everybody okay? What happened?"

Chris looked back at Mary and Billy as the blame and anger continued to have their way with his turbulent thoughts. What happened? It was a simple enough question, wasn't it? Yes, it was, and easy enough to answer--on the surface. But if he looked a little deeper, it got a hell of a lot harder, frightening... painful, the ominous brutality of the answer impossible to ignore. Mary had almost been killed, trembling in his arms with the horror of what had nearly befallen her. Billy scared out of his wits, teary-eyed and clinging to his mother with the violent death of his father no doubt running though his mind. What happened? Tragedy. Well, near tragedy.

A slightly unsteady hand tightened its grip around the gun he held as Chris contemplated Mary's pale, anxious features, the unyielding metal of the trigger guard biting into his callused palm. The run-in with Hawkins had been too close a call. So close, in fact, as to be intolerable. Once again, his reckless past had caught up with him, mercilessly threatening the new life he had begun to build, endangering the innocent people he'd allowed to get close. The scowl on his face deepened. He knew this wouldn't be the last time, either. His past was never really very far behind him. Cruelly, it hovered on the outskirts of his present existence with all the dark certainty of a vulture biding its time, waiting for the opportune moment to descend and rip his world apart.

"Pard?" Buck again halted the flow of self-incrimination as he placed a supportive hand on Chris' shoulder and repeated, "What happened?"

"A mistake." Chris glanced back at Buck as the gruff whisper left his lips. "Another old mistake catchin' up with me."

His attention once again drifted to Mary and Billy. The fear that lingered in their eyes sent another shard of guilt slicing through him. This was his fault, his fault.

No more! Please, God, no more! The violent prayer echoed through his heart. It had to stop. It had to stop here and now.

Without another word, he abruptly turned on his heel, walked down the stairs and started across the street. He had to step back... way back. There had to be some distance between Mary and himself, a lot of distance. He had to protect her... had to protect them both... keep them safe. Whatever it took. No matter how it hurt. She and Billy weren't going to suffer the same fate his beloved wife and son had suffered. Never.

The dirt road objected to his quick, purposeful strides, but Chris didn't notice the dust he left in his wake as he worked his way across the main street of Four Corners. He almost made it to the middle of the road when Billy's call stopped him in his tracks. "Chris? Where you goin'? Aren't you gonna have supper with us?"

Chris' jaw clenched tight with the bewildered disappointment he heard in the simple questions. He didn't want to turn around, didn't want to look into that innocent face, see the hurt in those trusting eyes. But it was a sight he was going to have to get used to if he was to protect the boy. He wanted nothing more than to make sure Billy and Mary were shielded from harm. Severing the growing ties he had with them was one sure way of doing just that. The process would begin now.

Slowly, he turned back to the small group standing in front of the saloon, while fiercely holding on to the cold frown that darkened his expression. "No."

The reply was a little more forceful than Chris would have liked, betraying too much of the powerful emotion that ran through him at the moment, but the chill of a false apathy also hit his ears, and he hoped it would help to further his purpose.

Larabee saw the begrudging hope realized in the matter of a second as he watched his short, stony answer register on the face of the young child he called friend, an eager expression suddenly dissolving into one of sharp dejection and disbelief.

The anguish of regret hit Chris with the impact of a speeding locomotive as he stared into the devastated features of Billy Travis. Lord help him, he didn't want to do this, but he didn't have a choice. His grip tightened on the gun in his hand as he tried to muster his wavering resolve. He couldn't allow his determination to be undermined so easily or so quickly. He was stronger than that. He had to be stronger than that.

Avoiding a look into Mary's face, he pivoted again, continuing his trip across the street.

End part 1

To Part 2